The panther and the eagle circle around

each other in a little land-to-air duet.

What is a man? She squawks. A thing that starts on four legs,

then moves on. The panther growls in reply.

And back. The eagle squawks again. How so?

Tell me the tale, Brer Sphinx.

Four Legs

The ox plodding across the fields dragging

the plough. The slow-eyed cows grazing as they await

the milk-machine. Sheep swept into their pens in flocks

by dogs. Cats prowling the night for little feasts.

The little fieldmice tittering around

the tottering carcasses of tiny-armed

dinosaurs. Suckling and hibernation the thread

uniting these quiet stirrings of a post-

apocalyptic life. Succor and leisure now

the lifeline and undoing of the race.

Two legs

Up on her own two feet homo (sic) sapiens

(sic again) can see prey and horizons far and

new over the yellow grass of the savannah.

March in a band across the jagged alps

Into the snowy north. Across the steppes

into the ceaseless blazing sands. Her feet

fit in the stirrups of a horse. Bold and upright,

the bodily mutilation awkwardly

obtained now bears a burden of rightness

none can throw off. Pinching the spine.

Strong feet and calves and weighed-down knees march over

the battlefield. Organs and softer tissue

protected by shields. Spears. And each other.

They try to do each other to death with stone

and wood and bronze and bits of old iron

dug up from the earth. And atoms split. Two hands help

them to scavenge for metals and fossil microbes

in the dirt. Pick fruit from trees. Kill and caress.

And speak a load of nonsense to each other

from a podium, across an aisle; in bed.    

Knee Damages

Then come the knee disorders. Knees put out of joint.

The fatal flaw. The kink in the machine.

The fold in the upright self bent double

in laughter or in pain. Bent sinister.

One got an arrow lodged in one. One got

a bullet point-blank in the cap in punishment

for something he’d supposedly done wrong.

Another got his bashed in by a fridge he was

unloading from a transit van. Jumping

too many a time can do it, climbing

a crag or stairs or kicking balls. Trying

to put a ball into a basket if you are tall.

Stretching the ligaments not meant for that

beyond their allotted purpose and paying

the toll. A little bit of hubris made

 of bone and cartilage is the original sin.

Three legs

Three is much stabler, after all, than four or two.

Guy with a stick stays up better than any

kitchen table. It’s easier on the spine.

Pride and weak-point preserved. The total collapse

postponed at least a while. The lame need not

lament but celebrate their fate. And yet

no animal has three. Only das kranke Tier

and then only when he is old and infirm.

And maybe—don’t hold your breath on this one—

when he is wise as well. And yet three bodies spin

about each other chaotically in space

like a love triangle in bed.

No legs

The weak point in the knees. Gives way. To falling

or a clot in the calf. The blocking

or severing of a femoral artery.

The toes too distal for the sluggish blood to reach

and quench. A sprain while running over rocks

and hungry gangrene sets in. A bomb, a bullet,

the helices of a helicopter blown off

by antiaircraft fire. Insidious rot and self-

neglect, or lying too long abed. All play their part.

Four wheels

Like crash-carts in the vision of Ezekiel.

Tanked up like half bionic centaurs; or high-tech

go-carts gone rogue. Honking in rage in jams

in clogged and treacherous streets. The monster made

to make up for the gap within. The murdering

machines men keep like pets in garages,

and love and pet. Polish and call pet names.

Heads spinning on the wheel-of-fortune rat race

once again. Running on empty now. Surely

the end is nigh. Sphinx sighs. The night is drawing in.

Work to be done. The eagle grins like a vulture.

One click of Sphinx’s fingers and all digital

things grind to a halt. She flicks quickly into

hyena mode. Hind legs. Ready to go.